J'avais envie d'inaugurer une nouvelle section ici, qui te permettra de commencer à comprendre l'humour délirant de l'irlandais moyen.
En effet, cet humour n'est pas forcément à la portée de tout-un-chacun. Déjà, il faut maîtriser l'anglais. Ah oui, je sais je te déçois lecteur, tu aurais aimé pouvoir lire du français. L'ennui c'est que ça serait de l'humour français alors, et ça.....ça n'existe pas on le sait...
Ensuite, il faut connaître son vocable populaire car sinon le moment ou il faut rire tu rateras. Et là, ça serait un peu la lose, quand même.
Bref, lecteur, devant ta mine exaspérée d'avoir à attendre pour lire une pauvre blague, I give to you....the first irish joke of a long series ! Enjoy (et parfais ton anglais par la même occasion, veux-tu)
IRISH LOVE STORY
An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite scones.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted Irish wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture.
His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a wooden spoon ......
.........
.........
F**k off' she said, 'they're for the funeral.'
An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite scones.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted Irish wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture.
His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a wooden spoon ......
.........
.........
F**k off' she said, 'they're for the funeral.'
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